


Across the Universe

by Castile181



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: I love writing mysteries and scifi, I might throw Jack Aubrey in as a guest character, I'm bad at names, SCIFI AU, descending even further into Hornblower hell, don't judge my shitty titles, k thank
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 08:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11482743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castile181/pseuds/Castile181
Summary: Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower is sent on a dangerous mission to retrieve highly classified research completed by a missing science officer whose father was recently slain in battle. Taking a small group of men with him aboard the starship Hotspur in route to the remote Cygnus X-1 star system, he gradually begins to realize that this mission may be even more dangerous than Pellew warned and that the missing science officer might be the most dangerous part of all.





	1. Which describes the manner in which Mr. Hornblower received his orders

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! My writing style is pretty different than Forester's but I hope the characterization will prove accurate and consistent. Thanks to everybody for the help and encouragement in writing this story.

“Hornblower to the bridge. Hornblower to the bridge.” Lieutenant Bracegirdle’s chipper voice blared through the crackly com in the wardroom and one Horatio Hornblower took just a moment longer to contemplate the compass he had fixed in the bottom of Bush’s bunk. Not that the compass actually worked here in the deep reaches of space, of course, but it gave him something to watch on those nights when his overactive mind kept him awake. 

He watched the needle spin uselessly, dancing back and forth in a confused little skip, and then in the next instant he was leaping out of his bunk with all the urgency that compliance with an order necessitated, nearly hitting his head on Bush’s arm, which hung down over the side of the bunks. But all the man did was flop over like a fish, his snoring muffled now by a pillow. Kennedy was a much more graceful sleeper than Bush, lying flat on his back, arms neatly folded over his chest. Horatio envied the both of them; it was rare that he ever indulged in sleep so wakeless or peaceful. 

Nevertheless, this order was better than any sleep, he thought as he slid into his boots and pulled a shirt on over his standard issue UN Space Command undershirt. Pellew had kept their mission a secret ever since they had departed Earth and Hornblower had the niggling feeling that he was about to find out what those orders were. Why he had been chosen he did not know; surely the more senior and capable Bush or the more personable Kennedy would have been a better option, but for now he brushed away the creeping tide of self derision that threatened his conscience, glad to have this something to occupy a mind sorely in need of exercise.

The doors to the wardroom parted before him and he exited, still pulling on his uniform coat. The bars at his shoulder and on his sleeves marked him as a Lieutenant. The union jack patch at his left shoulder noted his nation of origin. It was only by coincidence that he had ended up serving on a starship where the lieutenants and the captain were all British. Most ships these days were a hodgepodge of nationalities, much like UN Space Command itself, and he had served alongside Italians, Indians, Portuguese, and Colombians… the list went on.

He quickly worked the anchor buttons into their buttonholes, only pausing for a moment to rue the brass nameplate across his chest that said ‘Hornblower.’ Gold would have been better but he could not afford gold. He wiped the heel of his hand across it briefly, hoping to smudge away some of the brassiness. That was a useless gesture of course; by now everyone aboard knew that Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower had a brass nameplate instead of a gold one.

“Mr. Hornblower, I will not lose any more time through your dawdling, Sir!” Pellew’s bellowing voice greeted him as the doors to the bridge slid open and he noted Bracegirdle’s cheeky grin, only barely managing to suppress one himself. Pellew’s now-familiar growl had frightened him when he was a midshipman but he had through experience learned to recognize it for mere fatherly banter. 

“Sir,” he said, presenting himself at attention before the captain. Pellew looked at him for a minute, one dark eyebrow raised, and then untucked a tablet from under his arm, the bluish screen humming into fluorescence as he thumbed the display button. A biometrics sheet stared back at Horatio.

“Captain Ximena Torres,” Pellew said, his ever present growl of command thrumming through his voice. “UN Space Command. A native of Cádiz, Spain.” Horatio’s dark eyes quickly flicked through the biometrics sheet as Pellew gave him a moment to study it.

183 centimeters: very tall for a woman. 28 years old: his heart smarted with envy at that. Nearly his age and she had already attained post rank. Bah! He rued his lack of political connections not for the first time today. Distinguished service record despite a history of fistfights as a lieutenant, somewhat of a scientist, accomplished athlete, top of her class in the academy. Hornblower frowned, scrolling down. Her ID picture stared back at him: square jaw, straight shoulders, heavily hooded hazel eyes, chestnut hair pulled back tight, grim expression. There was no emotion in that face. 

“Daughter of the late Admiral Miguel Torres,” Pellew said, thereby providing Horatio one more reason to dislike someone who had all the advantages he wished for but would never have. Miguel Torres had been the unfortunate victim of the most recent battle with the Oblates, having done significant damage to the enemy only to have his ship’s power systems implode, causing her to drift helplessly into a black hole. He had been known more for his daring in battle than for any particular strategic genius, and he had been equally known for having friends in high places, holding several political positions himself, and a scandal some ten years ago concerning the matter of whether or not he had accepted bribes from the Vatican. 

“She’s missing, Hornblower, and the UN wants her back,” Pellew said, turning to Horatio. The captain cleared his throat, giving Bracegirdle a pointed look, and the lieutenant cleared the bridge, leaving Pellew and Hornblower alone. So there was more to this than met the eye. 

“As I am sure you can see,” Pellew muttered in a low voice, despite the privacy of the bridge, “Captain Torres is a science officer of some note.” Horatio glanced at the biometrics sheet again, surveying the extensive list of papers that Torres had published. “She was working, a secret mission mind you, highly classified, in the far reaches of Cygnus X-1. The technology she possesses is of inestimable value to Space Command. She was in continual contact with her superiors at Space Command until two weeks ago when her com suddenly went dead.”

“Is my duty to find her then, Sir?” Horatio asked. That only earned him a look from Pellew that told him his impatience was not appreciated.

“Your duty is to retrieve her research,” Pellew replied. “If she is alive you will retrieve her as well but,” the captain paused, clearly trying to think of some way to phrase a delicate matter, “the likelihood of finding her alive is slim, Mr. Hornblower. Do not hope for it.” Clearly there was a great deal that Pellew wished to say but was under orders not to. “And…for your sake, Mr. Hornblower, it might be better to find Ximena Torres dead than alive.” Hornblower wanted to ask more about that but Pellew cut him off before he had even opened his mouth. “This mission is of the utmost secrecy, Mr. Hornblower. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“You will take your division and I will grant you one of the other lieutenants, whichever you judge best for the mission. I shall appoint you commander of the brig Hotspur. Pack your things, Mr. Hornblower, notify your men, inform me of your choice of lieutenant. We will jettison the Hotspur in two hours.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.” Hornblower’s mind was already charting the coordinates to Cygnus X-1, already working over the logistics of the situation and wondering what, precisely, might have happened to Ximena Torres and why Space Command was willing to fight tooth and nail for whatever research she had been working on. With a salute he turned to go but Pellew’s voice arrested him as he reached the doors.

“Mr. Hornblower,” the captain called and Horatio turned around to face him once more. Pellew nodded. “I trust your usual sense of caution will not desert you.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” he said, suppressing a grin as he went to find Bush.


	2. Which recounts the jettisoning of the starship Hotspur

“Come aboard Sir.” Bush’s gruff voice cut through Horatio’s thoughts and he turned with a grin to see his newly-minted first lieutenant climb down the hatch onto the cramped gangway of the Hotspur. 

“Mr. Bush,” Horatio replied with a grin. He’d nearly said ‘William’ but had managed to check himself at the last minute, replacing the familiar first name he had used when they’d both been lieutenants but a mere hour ago, with the more formal surname suitable now to the relationship between a commander and his lieutenant. “Is Mr. Wellard with you?”

“Coming aboard now, Sir, with the last of the supplies,” Bush replied, reaching up to stow his dunnage away in one of the top compartments. The hands shuffled around in the aft compartment, readying the Hotspur for departure, and Horatio heard the unmistakable sound of Styles arguing with someone.

“Mr. Bush,” he said with a sigh, “please see what all that trouble is about and I’d be much obliged if you’d check if the water tanks are filled yet.” His tone had been a bit terser than he had intended, not that Bush would mind, Bush was obedient in the same way as a loyal dog, but they were nearing departure time now and he had wished to be ready earlier than necessary. This was to be his first serious command, it was liable to be a difficult commission, and if he did not perform it to the best of his abilities he was sure he would be left to rot on half pay for the rest of his life. These orders had come down from the highest levels of UN Space Command. His reports were sure to be scrutinized down to the minutest detail. 

His com buzzed and he looked down at the screen, feeling his stomach drop into his boots as he did so. Maria… He swallowed hard, stared at the pulsing light of the screen alerting him to her call, the little green button begging for him to tap it and answer, the picture she’d taken of herself and assigned to her own contact details in his phone (he’d never have done that voluntarily and he’d protested when she’d done so, not that it had availed him). 

With a wave of guilt he thumbed the off button and silenced the buzzing of the com. He didn’t have time for that and now, at a moment when he had a thousand duties tumbling through his head, the last thing he needed was to be forced to listen to her stifling platitudes on love and that cloyingly tender tone in her voice. He was only dating her because he hadn’t had the strength to break her heart when she had suddenly and unexpectedly introduced him to her mother as her boyfriend. And so, he’d smiled and feigned happiness, shaking her delighted mother’s hand all the while Maria looked at him with adoring eyes, knowing himself to be a coward for having let her believe such a thing without ever telling her the truth. After all, he’d known of her feelings for him for some time; it was his fault that he hadn’t had the courage to crush her hopes before she had acted on them. She’d always been a good friend; he couldn’t bear to hurt her.

“Come aboard, Sir!” Wellard’s enthusiastic voice called down the hatch and Horatio breathed a sigh of relief at the welcome distraction.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Wellard. Do be so good as to close the hatch once you’ve gotten yourself aboard.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” came Wellard’s reply and Horatio stalked forward to the cockpit, taking the captain’s seat, long pale fingers dancing over the seemingly-innumerable buttons, levers, and flashing lights that covered the dashboard. He had spent the past hour charting their initial coarse and he quickly programmed the flight plan into the computer. 

“Ship is ready, Sir,” came Bush’s gruff voice as he entered the cockpit and took the first officer’s seat. “We’re ready when you are.”

“Very well Mr. Bush,” Horatio said, a strange confluence of nausea and excitement coming together in the pit of his stomach. He’d nearly forgotten how sick these smaller ships made him and he could not tell if the churning of his stomach was from nerves or illness. “Radio the indefatigable and inform them that we are ready to be jettisoned.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Bush replied. Hornblower was vaguely conscious of Wellard entering the cockpit and strapping himself into his flight seat, but he had focused his attention on the stars in the hopes it might settle his disquieted stomach. They turned slowly out in the darkness of space, or rather, the ship turned slowly, but just the thought of that terrible weightlessness, of the possibility of being lost in that dark vacuum, was enough to worry Hornblower’s stomach even more and he licked his lips, tightening his hands in his lap.

That was Archie now, talking to Bush via the com link, and Horatio felt a fresh surge of guilt blossom. He had seen the disappointment in Archie’s face when he had chosen Bush instead of him. But, this was a highly classified mission, a mission where secrecy and, most probably, silence, would be of the utmost importance. He could not risk Archie having a fit in the midst of a strategic operation, blowing their cover. 

He knew, and Archie knew, that was why he had chosen Bush over him. He had seen the hurt in Archie’s eyes, and worse still, the quiet acceptance and eventual smile that had accompanied it. The worst part had been knowing that Archie had so badly wanted to go, had secretly hoped for it, but that he too had believed himself unfit for the task.

Gloom settled over Hornblower as he sat staring out at distant galaxies, massive stars that were mere pinpricks of light scattered across the infinite blackness of space as if they had been strewn there by some titanic hand. Cygnus X-1 was out there somewhere, along with research worth dying for and, most probably, the body of a corrupt admiral’s daughter. Hornblower nearly sighed before deeming that behavior unbecoming of a new commander.

“Mr. Bush, quickly if you please!” He snapped.

“Indefatigable cleared to jettison Hotspur,” he heard Kennedy’s voice through the com link.

“Affirmative,” Bush replied and then Hornblower heard the loud mechanical whirr of the Indefatigable’s docking arm detach and begin to retract, felt the lurch of the Hotspur as she settled on her heading, and tasted the bile of space sickness rising in his throat.

“Take her out, Mr. Bush,” he said, swallowing the bile down.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Bush said dutifully, pulling up the flight plan on the computer, flicking the flight controls that would send them into hyperspace. The Hotspur’s little engines began to hum and whirr, growing steadily louder as they warmed up until the noise was nearly deafening, the little spaceship vibrating enthusiastically, and then Bush eased up on the hyperspace lever, the pinpricks of starlight turned to streaming lines of white, and the Hotspur vanished in a flash, leaving the Indy far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these chapters are so short. This is probably all I'll get finished today. Don't worry. Archie, Pellew, and Bracegirdle will all continue to be in the story. I'll have a storyline that follows the Indefatigable as well and Archie will be in regular communication with the Hotspur. Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you are enjoying it.


	3. Concerning the last stand of Ximena Torres

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit nervous to post this one since I feel like people generally don't like OCs in fics but it's going to be critical to the plot so it needs to be here. Hope you all are enjoying this!
> 
> Also, 'joder' means 'fuck' or 'shit' in Spanish. It will come up a lot in this chapter.

_Two weeks earlier…_

Ximena Torres punched in the passcode to her bunker, gloved fingers compressing the buttons with a bit of difficulty. The four stuck; the four always stuck. She had to press it twice. “Joder…” she cursed under her breath. It was less an expression of anger and more one of exhaustion. She was tired and she wasn’t a woman who was accustomed to lethargy. 

The door finally hissed open and she stepped in out of the blazing heat of the jungle. Pathetic: a punch code. Not even a fingerprint scanner. Her com had more security features than that. “Swamp ass…” she groaned, easing off the heavy humid environmental suit. That was an English phrase she’d learned long ago in BASIC from a cadet from Louisiana and living on this god-forsaken planet provided her with an abundance of opportunities to use it.

Sweat ran rather than dripped from her body and damp tendrils of hair clung to her face when she pulled off her helmet. The suit was supposed to have a cooling unit but of course that was broken, just like everything else she had been provided with for this damned mission. But, at least the helmet did a good job of keeping the sulfuric atmosphere out of her lungs. Delta-683 was not well suited for human life. Well, it was, technically speaking. It could support human life, but not comfortably. 

She looked out the grimy window in the blast door at the thick yellow clouds that hung low in the jungle canopy and felt the now-familiar despondence sink into her chest. 600 years her family had been serving in the Spanish navy and now here she was exiled to this stinking, inhospitable, sulfur-jungle-pit of a planet. Five months ago she had been the captain of a third rate star cruiser with a crew of almost a thousand under her command, eating scallops off of gold-rimmed china each night, and drinking Turkish coffee on her bridge every morning.

Environmental suit discarded, she exited the decompression chamber and slumped through the cramped laboratory that doubled as a home, pausing to check on her microchips swimming in their algae baths: precious little things. They might as well have been her children for all of the care and concern she had put into them over the years. And now… now they were almost complete. That did, after all, make her sojourn on this god-forsaken planet worth it. She watched them a moment longer, even managed a hint of a smile. The alga was adhering so nicely to the semiconductors; she just wished it would have been possible to obtain this particular species of algae on a less inconvenient planet.

She reached up for the extendable arm that held her microscope in place and pulled it down, focusing it over the crystals, fingers flicking through lenses until the crystalline structure of the semiconductors shivered into focus. Doping the crystal lattice had produced precisely the pattern she had been hoping for. She scanned over to observe the semiconductor junction and felt a thrill of excitement scorch down her spine. Perfect, perfect, she’d hardly dared to hope that the junction would splice so neatly! Right on schedule. She pushed the extendable arm back up and pulled out her tablet, thumbing it on and entering her observations into her project chart, then pressed the ‘send’ button to transmit it to Space Command. That would please them and the sooner she finished this project the sooner she’d be off this planet.

Yet even Delta-683 with its unbearable heat and its sulfur clouds couldn’t keep her down after that discovery, and she stepped into the ice cold shower with a satisfied sigh. “Joder,” she said, this time with a hint of triumph in her voice. Afterward, she toweled off, slipping into a fresh pair of pants and a uniform regulation tank, the four stitched gold bars on the strap denoting her captaincy, the little red and gold flag of Spain that was stitched over her opposite breast signifying her nationality. 

The only thing that dampened her mood was when she when she dumped the canned rice, tomatoes, and beans into the little skillet over her camp stove. These rations were getting old. Not that she wasn’t used to roughing it; her life had been regulated by the military practically since she’d been born, but five months on rice, tomatoes, and garbanzos was a lot to ask of anyone. Still, it could have been worse; it could have been salt beef and biscuit. 

She dumped a lid on the pan and walked back over to the door, punching the code to get into the compression chamber and collecting her environmental suit before returning to the lab and throwing herself down in a chair, spreading the suit out over the cramped kitchen table. She could probably fix the cooling unit herself. She reached into the locker behind her to pull out her toolkit. 

Actually... she could probably improve the cooling unit, she thought as she disassembled it. This was like some sort of odd spinal surgery, the suit lying facedown on the table, the back neatly filleted, parts spread out in a regimented pattern like some sort of robotic exoskeleton. Simple: the wire connecting the control switch to the unit was frayed, garbage design. 

Ximena stood, padding over to pull a plastic box from a drawer and flicking through the microchips in their neat plastic cases. These were pet projects, ones she had made for fun or simply to experiment. She selected the one she wanted and returned to the broken cooling unit with a grin. She had actually made this one back when she’d been a lieutenant and the refrigeration unit in the wardroom had been broken. Young officers deprived of cold beer did not make for good bunkmates but this little baby had fixed that problem.

Thankfully the cooling unit in the suit did have a place for a chip and, though it had been meant for a recording device, with a few tweaks she knew she’d be able to get it to handle the refrigeration chip just fine. It was back to the microscope then, doping the crystal lattice, examining the semiconductor junction, adjusting the temperature algorithm. Now it would automatically activate the cooling unit when the temperature inside the suit topped 24 degrees Celsius.  
She slid the chip into the unit and dragged the suit over to the camp stove. The rice and beans bubbled in their tomato soup beneath the lid and she lifted it, venting the steam into the suit. After a moment she heard a faint click and saw the green light pulse on the cooling unit as cool air began to flow into the suit. Perfecto.

A buzzing noise drew her from her thoughts and she subconsciously reached up to slap the timer she’d set for her dinner. She pulled the suit away from the heat of the stove, watching the cooling unit carefully, waiting for it to click off. The buzzer went off again. She reached up to slap it. It kept buzzing. She slapped it again. “¡Joder!” She barked, dropping the suit and looking up to turn it off properly. The timer still had ten minutes left on it. She frowned. What the…?

No. No it wasn’t possible. Cold dread blossomed at the nape of her neck and dripped ominously down her spine. She vaulted over the table, slamming in the wall by the blast door with all the force of a woman who was 183 cm tall and built mostly of muscle, nearly ripping the shield off of the radar screen as she lifted it to stare at the approaching green dots. How had they gotten through the atmosphere without her signals alerting her? The buzzer continued to blare, the volume increasing with the proximity of those softly glowing dots.

The ground rattled with the force of an explosion and she grasped at the wall for support. That would have been her fighter. Of course they’d blow it up. Disabling it would have been too simple; they’d have known she’d be able to fix it if she escaped and they didn’t intend to let that happen. Almost here. She hurried over to her locker and retrieved her blaster and energy sword, clipping the sword to her belt, the blaster held in a relaxed grip against her chest as she pressed herself against the wall by the door. 

Well, if that was the way things were going to be then she’d go down like Churruca at Trafalgar with her flag nailed to the mast, fighting to the death. England had hoisted Nelson’s famous, ‘England expects that every man will do his duty.’ Spain had hoisted, ‘eternal glory for those who die in battle; execution for those who shirk the fight.’ She took a deep breath. The electricity flickered, then died.


	4. In which Mr. Kennedy plays a most diverting game

“Mr. Cuyegkeng,” Archie said with a smile and a polite salute as he stepped onto the bridge to take over the watch. Jose Mangahas Cuyegkeng and Elian Laval were the two lieutenants who had been sent to replace Hornblower and Bush. The former was from the Philippines and nearly fresh out of the academy, the latter French and diligent enough even if there was nothing of particular note in his service record to distinguish him.

Cuyegkeng responded with appropriate deference to his more senior lieutenant and vacated the bridge while the two midshipmen of the watch popped to their feet and made their salutes and greetings before Kennedy set them at ease again. Teresa Mendoza and Anh Dung Tran, Mexican and Vietnamese respectively, were diligent enough young officers…even if they were messing about with one of those little video games on Mendoza’s com underneath the control panel as if it weren’t obvious what they were doing.

But, when Kennedy had been a teenager he too had imagined his own shenanigans to be miraculously invisible to his superiors. Now, however, it was only too obvious to him that they had known everything and it was only because they grew tired of constantly chiding midshipmen that they had allowed his misdeeds to so often go unpunished.

Kennedy took the seat that Cuyegkeng had previously occupied and did the habitual checks that duty required him to perform when taking over the watch. Those had become rote memory by now, like driving a car home and then not knowing how you got there upon arrival. He glanced over at the junior officers of the watch once more. Clearly something amusing had happened in their game, judging by their hushed snickers and the devious smiles plastered across their faces. How long he let them live under the misapprehension that he was ignorant of their mild breech of duty depended upon whether or not they had the good sense to be diligent when he required it of them.

Fortunately for them, at least, that slight glance from him had been enough to clue them in and Mendoza quickly turned off the com, the two youngsters pretending to be absorbed in star charts now. Archie leaned back in the chair, laced his hands together and rested them back behind his head while kicking his feet up onto the dash. 

The slightly bitter taste of indignation that had watered his mouth last week when Cuyegkeng and Laval had moved into Horatio and Bush’s bunks was stupid. This was the service and he’d been in it long enough to become accustomed to the near constant rotation of officers and staff. Certainly, he’d served long enough that it was more rare than usual that he had the good fortune to serve with either Hornblower or Bush. But, it was extremely rare that he ever got to serve with both of them together and he had been looking forward to it. The loss of the both of them at once had been a sore disappointment.

He couldn’t deny either that he was hurt that Horatio had chosen Bush over him. Horatio had known him longer, after all, but he knew that Horatio had made the logical choice; Horatio would always make the logical choice and it was selfish of him to wish that sometimes his friend might adopt the more personally gratifying choice over the rational one. That was, if choosing him would have been the more personally gratifying choice: perhaps Horatio had come to like Bush better.

That too, was a selfish thought and Archie tried to scrub it from his mind. They were both his friends, his dear friends, but was it wrong of him to wish that once, just once, someone would see him as the most valuable? He pulled his hands down from behind his head and clasped them in his lap with irritation. He hated these kinds of thoughts and he was angry with himself for having them even as further bubbles of envy frothed in his imagination.

He wished he had Bush’s stalwart unshakeability. He wished he had Hornblower’s wild genius. But, all he had managed to do was run in the middle of the pack, never the best, never the worst, always only one step away from failure. He knew why Horatio hadn’t chosen him, of course, though Horatio had been too kind to say it. He knew Horatio didn’t think of himself as kind but he was, at least he was kinder to Archie than most people had ever been.

His mood turned black and he glanced over at the midshipmen. Surprisingly, the com was still tucked away in Mendoza’s pocket and they seemed to be studying the star charts in earnest now. “Mendoza, Tran, mind the bridge. I’m going to get a cup of tea,” he told them. Their obedient ‘aye, ayes’ followed him out the bridge doors. 

Lieutenant Bracegirdle was in the wardroom, looking as if he had just been to the gym. That was to say that he had put on his exercise clothes but done no exercising. Archie had served with him long enough by this point to know that Bracegirdle’s sole interest in the gym was socializing, as evidenced by both the little potbelly that he sported in front and the fact that he seemed to know the name of absolutely every sailor on the ship. And yet, despite having little care as to whether or not he was in shape, Bracegirdle somehow managed to pass his physical tests every year, usually with a great deal of good-natured huffing and puffing. That brought a smile to Archie’s face and lightened his mood somewhat. “Kennedy!” Bracegirdle greeted him.

“Mr. Bracegirdle,” Archie replied cheerfully, grabbing a Styrofoam cup and filling it with hot water.

“Come then, what will it be?” Bracegirdle asked, opening the tea box and rifling through an assortment of packets. “Irish breakfast…Chamomile…who stocked this tea box, an American?” He laughed. “I say, oh look, you’ve been saved, Kennedy. There’s Earl Grey! Will you have it?”

“Something a bit stronger, perhaps,” Archie said. “I believe I’ll have the Irish breakfast actually.”

“Irish breakfast then, only don’t blame me when you’re wishing you were sipping on Earl Grey,” Bracegirdle said, handing over a teabag.

“Nothing wrong with Irish breakfast, Sir!” Piped up an obviously Irish accent from a group of petty officers playing cards in the lounge, eliciting a chorus of laughter.

Archie laughed along with them as he dredged the teabag in the hot water, fishing in the refrigerator for a slice of lemon. But, an idea had entered his mind and, squeezing the lemon into his tea and discarding the spent rind, he turned back to Bracegirdle.

“I see you’ll keep us entertained, Mr. Bracegirdle, even without Hornblower and Bush here,” he said. That seemed a covert enough way to try to fish out the information he was looking for, if Bracegirdle even knew anything at all, that was. It was very possible that whatever orders Pellew had received remained confined to him and Hornblower alone. Even Bush had seemed ignorant of the mission.

“I daresay we’ll have a better time than them at any rate,” Bracegirdle said with a twinkle in his eye. That could have been mere innocent banter or…or…possibly…. Archie almost felt bad trying to extract information from the first lieutenant. Bracegirdle was an amiable fellow and he’d never wish to cause him trouble, but he was curious as to what Hornblower and Bush were up to (and curiosity had always been Archie’s Achilles heel) and Bracegirdle in such a jolly mood was prone to gossip.

Archie laughed and took a drink of his tea. “So long as we aren’t bound for any black holes, that is,” he joked. “Nobody wants to risk pulling a Torres these days.”

Bracegirdle shook his head, his smile growing a little weaker. “Let’s hope Hornblower doesn’t then,” he said. Archie nearly spit out his tea in surprise; he could hardly believe his luck. So Bracegirdle did know something then! Still, he daren’t push for more information now. That would be too obvious. Already Bracegirdle’s humor was starting to wear off. Clearly Archie had stumbled upon something ominous.

“Is that a pound cake?” He asked, pointing to the pan at Bracegirdle’s elbow and the distracted lieutenant looked over, his eyes brightening at the sight.

“I daresay it is!” Bracegirdle exclaimed, his smile returning in full bloom. “Would you like some, Kennedy?” He asked, already pulling down a plate for himself.

“If you don’t mind,” Archie said, “and two extra slices for Mendoza and Tran. They’re on watch with me.”

“On watch?” Bracegirdle heaped the requested slices onto a plate and handed it off. “Oh dear, I hope I haven’t kept you.”

“No, Sir,” Archie said with a smile, “though I ought to get back to my post.”

“Of course you must, of course,” Bracegirdle laughed. “Sorry to hear you’ve got this watch, Kennedy. Damned unfortunate.”

“Damned unfortunate, Sir,” Archie said in reply. Nobody wanted these watches that tailed into the early hours of the morning. 

With his tea in one hand and the plate of cake in the other, he made his way back to the bridge. It would be good to have the cake to distract the midshipmen, he thought. That would keep them distracted from what he was doing; perhaps he’d even pretend to ignore them when they inevitably began playing their games on the com again.

He settled back into his chair after returning their salutes and setting them to happily munching at the cake. He swallowed his own bit of cake and then glanced back over at the midshipmen. They were happily occupied in eating and playing their games on Mendoza’s com. Satisfied, Archie reached for the radio controls, flipping them to the private channel that had been established for the Hotspur, and pulling on the big noise cancelling headphones with the mic.

With a cheeky grin he inched his chair forward and ran his fingers across one of the computer screens. It glowed to life and he quickly navigated through it, tongue clenched between his teeth, cross-referencing Torres and black hole. This could be a complete bust. All he knew for certain was that they were probably bound for somewhere with a black hole; the part about Torres was merely a hunch. The results were predictable, thousands of articles on the recent battle and demise of the Admiral, military reports by the dozen on the same incident. He scrolled through. Boring. Boring. More Boring. Most Boring.

Below the reports were coordinates. Lists of systems with black holes, lists of black holes, binary systems, incidents involving black holes…he stopped and scrolled back up. Maybe it was intuition, maybe just random choice: he touched ‘binary systems’ and a new window popped up. He cross-referenced binary systems and black holes. Now he was down to three choices. Archie bit his lower lip. He had a gut feeling that he was onto something. Sirius, Procyon, Cygnus X-1: the three known binary star systems with black holes stared up at him.

Not Procyon. There’d be no need for them to go there. It was practically in Earth’s back garden and completely overrun by shipping conglomerates. His fingers danced in indecision over the two glowing buttons: Sirius, Cygnus X-1. Chance then. He huffed and cleared his throat into the microphone. It hummed to life at the sound. 

“Contact Hotspur,” he said.

“Contacting Hotspur,” the cool, calm, female voice of the computer replied. A moment later her heard the short crackle of static that always came when initial contact was made with another ship.

“Hotspur this is Indefatigable, do you copy? Over.” He said.

“Indefatigable, this is Hotspur, we copy,” he heard Bush’s gruff voice and a gleeful grin broke out on his face. It was the first time he had heard from his friends in a week. He checked his excitement and glanced over at the midshipmen to make sure they were still occupied. Technically speaking, only officers who were in the know about whatever secret orders Horatio had received were supposed to contact the Hotspur but Archie doubted that Bush had been made aware as to whether he knew or not.

“How are you, Mr. Bush?” He asked with a laugh, kicking his feet back up onto the dash and leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head again.

“Quite well, Mr. Kennedy,” Bush chortled good-naturedly. Archie squinted at the two names on the computer screen. Sirius. Cygnus X-1. It was a blind choice.

“How’s your little trip to Cygnus X-1 going?” He asked, a broad grin on his face. There was a pause on the other end and for a moment he thought he must have chosen the wrong one and given away his game but then Bush’s voice came through again. Bush sounded confused.

“Well enough, Mr. Kennedy.” Bush’s reply was followed a moment later by a yelp that turned into Horatio’s familiar bark of anger.

“Dammit to hell, Archie!” Horatio cried. The com went dead. White noise buzzed in Archie’s ears again and the midshipman turned to look at him but the Indefatigable’s second lieutenant was laughing so hard that he didn’t mind.


End file.
